


of dogs, planes, and runaway trains

by schism



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, schemes on schemes on schemes, set post-5x06; canon compliance questionable, tiny hints of metafiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-11-01 10:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17865641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schism/pseuds/schism
Summary: Ed and Oswald join forces one last time to escape the city.Of course, nothing ever goes according to plan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i just... couldn't wait until the show got to the boys finally teaming up again, so here's a little self-indulgent speculation.
> 
>  
> 
> alternate title: _how the riddler got his cane_.

If Gotham City had an award for the most hare-brained plan of the year, Ed Nygma is sure the predicament he's found himself in would certainly qualify if not for the award itself then at least an honorable mention.

Speaking of…

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” a sing-song voice calls from somewhere to his left.

Ed pushes down the urge to dart from his hiding place behind some conveniently stacked crates and instead clutches the pager in his hand, wondering for the fifth time this evening just what he's gotten himself into.

“Yoo hoo,” the voice calls again, and there’s a shuffling sound somewhere to his right, followed by a muttered, “normally I love hide-and-seek, and chasing sneaky little rats, but you're no fun.”

What is she…

“Gotcha!” 

Ed manages to push but one key on the pager before a swift kick flings it from his hands entirely.

He blinks once, twice, staring at the spot the pager landed, several feet away, in disbelief.

So much for that.

Looking up, he sees the source of the voice – a woman, wearing a garish outfit and even more garish face paint – standing right in front of him.

_What is easy to get into but hard to get out of?_

In the split second it takes for the situation to fully register, Ed figures he might be able to knock her down and make a break for it. In the split second after that, however, he remembers his injured ankle.

“Uh oh,” the woman says, her hands behind her back and her mouth twisted into a sadistic grin, “looks like someone's in trouble. Oh, and a tip for the next time: check that your feet ain't stickin' outta your hidey-hole, mkay?”

Ed opens his mouth to reply something, _anything_ , but the words die on his tongue as she switches her stance and swings a comically oversized mallet at his head.

 _So that's why her hands were behind her back,_ he thinks, watching as the mallet approaches his head almost as if in slow motion. 

A jubilant cry of “Lights out!” is the last thing he hears before everything goes dark.

 

***

 

**Three days earlier**

 

Standing in the foyer of the former city hall, Ed can't help but think that Oswald really needs to up his security measures to include guards at the more unconventional entrances of the building. 

Then again, better security would mean Ed might not get into the building this easily next time. Presuming, of course, that there will _be_ a next time.

He takes a few tentative steps, listening for any movement as he mulls over the pros and cons of informing Oswald about the weaknesses in the building's defenses. Cursory revision indicates it would be far more beneficial to keep the knowledge to himself. At the same time, the knowledge _is_ a potential bargaining chip... and he sorely needs one.

The sound of claws on marble floor yanks him from his thoughts and a look around reveals a stout bulldog bounding towards him.

Well, technically it's _Edward_ the stout bulldog that's bounding towards him, but Ed refuses to refer to the dog by its name – at least until Oswald finally admits that the dog's name being _his_ name is no coincide.

In any case, the dog in question skids to a stop in front of Ed, looking up at him quizzically. A moment later, it whines plaintively, wagging its stubby tail.

Deciding that to indulge the animal is easier in the long run than to endure whatever might happen if it started barking loudly enough to bring unwanted attention, Ed crouches down and scratches the soft, foldy skin behind its ears.

The dog whines again, this time in appreciation.

After about a minute of cycling between the whining and the scratching, Ed's patience is starting to thin. “That's enough for now, I think,” he tells the dog, standing up to stretch his cramping legs. “Where's Oswald? I need to talk to him.”

The dog only pants happily in response to the name of its owner, wagging its stubby tail even more forcefully than before. Its entire body follows the motion, conjuring the image of a tree quaking in strong wind. Or perhaps an especially enthusiastic club-goer, complete with a matching level of mental awareness.

Ed sighs. “If I promise to pet you some more later, will you take me to him?” he asks, acutely aware that he's talking to a dog as if it could understand his words.

The dog stares at him for a moment before huffing and trotting off.

Ed fights the urge to rub his temples. In the end, having decided that one way or another, he'll run into Oswald eventually, he follows the dog deeper into the building.

Fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately, but he doesn't have neither the time, the presence of mind nor, frankly, any particular desire to weigh the pros and cons of the situation – _eventually_ comes sooner rather than later, because it takes him only a minute of wandering the halls before bumping into Oswald.

Quite literally, in fact.

“What _the hell_ do you–” Oswald starts as their collision forces the trash-bag he’d been carrying to go flying from his hand, his voice rising to an alarming pitch before coming to a sudden stop entirely as he realizes who he’s looking at. “...Ed? What are you doing in my house?”

Admitting he was following the dog around seems a tinge too pathetic, so Ed decides against it – as well as against pointing out the fact that it isn't technically Oswald's house at all but a municipal building commandeered by him when the city became a free-for-all.

So, instead he says, “A strength for friend, a weakness for foe, my birth heralds fences mended and quarrels ended. What am I?” and hopes that Oswald doesn’t ask how he got into the building.

Of course, said hope is in vain.

“How did you get past the guards?” Oswald asks, ignoring the riddle entirely as he leans down to scoop the dog into his arms. “And past Edward, for that matter?”

Pausing to weigh his options, Ed decides deflection is the best course of action available at the moment. “Never mind that,” he says, turning his gaze from Oswald's face to the dog in his arms. “How about we finally address the fact that you named your dog after me?”

Oswald's eyes narrow, but he doesn't rise to the bait. “Make one wrong move,” he replies, shifting the dog in his arms, “and my guards will come running.”

Back to the old game of cat and mouse, then. “If you were going to call for your guards,” Ed responds nonchalantly, leaning closer to pet the dog, “you would've done it by now. Actually, now that I think about it – your guards would've already spotted me... if you had any to spare for the inside of the building. Besides, I thought we were beyond threats. For the moment, at least.”

Oswald exhales sharply. “Fair enough, I suppose,” he says eventually, sounding suspiciously distracted. “Why are you here?”

Ed draws back, crossing his arms and attempting to project an air of confidence – if only to try and ignore the sinking feeling that coming here was a mistake; whatever reception he’d expected, it certainly wasn’t this. “As you well know, most of Gotham thinks me a mass murderer, even despite the truth of the matter. Needless to say, this is a problem.”

Oswald tenses almost imperceptibly, clutching the dog a little closer to his chest. “I take it you got your answers, then.”

“What happened… Well, I'm in full control of my actions once more.”

“Good to know.”

They stand in silence for a moment, both occupied with their own thoughts. Then, the dog whines and wriggles in Oswald’s arms, indicating it's had enough of being held for the moment.

With a sigh, Oswald sets it down gently, almost gingerly, watching as it trots off to sniff at the trash-bag lying a few feet away.

For some reason, though, his eyes widen almost comically once the dog starts chewing on the drawstring holding the bag closed. “Edward, stop that _this instant_ or–” he starts, an almost shrill hint of panic creeping into his voice even as he keeps his tone forceful but even.

However, the words come far too late and, with a satisfied grunt, the dog pulls the bag open.

Instead of trash, as Ed had expected, though, an exorbitant amount of loose cash spills out; the dog claims a good mouthful of it and happily gets to work on chewing it.

Oswald curses under his breath and hobbles over to reclaim the rest of the bag from the dog, his back to Ed as he hovers over both dog and bag – suspicious enough on its own, considering their history and the state of the city, but when coupled with the distracted demeanor, the trash-bag of money, the lack of guards inside the building as well as the lack of any recent attempts at territory expansion…

The dog wanders off, presumably in search of something else to chew on, leaving behind a drool-soaked bundle of hundred-dollar bills alongside his frustrated owner.

_Of course._

“What do you call having a tiger in the cabin on a passenger plane?” Ed asks a few seconds later, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

The sound of his voice causes Oswald’s shoulders to visibly slump, fuelling Ed's suspicions further.

“Answer the riddle, Oswald.”

Standing up, the haphazardly reassembled bag dangling in his left hand, Oswald turns to face him. “A risky flight,” he says, the note of defeat in his voice barely concealed by his annoyance; it’s clear he knows that Ed knows. “Or, as I suspect you want it answered: it's a flight risk. Not one of your best riddles, you know – too much room for interpretation.”

Electing to ignore the thinly veiled insult – room for interpretation was _exactly_ the point – Ed narrows his eyes. “So you _are_ making a break for it,” he says triumphantly, even as a part of him remains adamant that rubbing salt in the wound might not a good idea – especially considering why he risked coming here in the first place. The rest of him, though, stomps that thought out quick as can be.

“I don’t see how that's any of your business,” Oswald says, narrowing his eyes in return, but the defensiveness in his tone tells Ed all he needs to know. 

A huff of laughter escapes Ed’s throat before he can stop it. “I'm coming with you. I figure that makes it my business, don’t you?” he says, smiling pleasantly.

Oswald stares at him for a good ten seconds, dumbfounded, before erupting in disbelieving laughter. “And what makes you think that's going to happen?”

“Simple: you need me.”

There's a brief pause – and Oswald laughs again. “Right,” he says, trying to keep a straight face and, judging by the twitching at the corners of his mouth, clearly failing. “That's your best offer?”

“You know what I can do,” Ed says, hating the fact that his mounting desperation is readily apparent in his voice no matter how much he tries to hide it. “Besides, I have personal incentive to get out of the city. If you ask me, that's a more than good enough reason.”

“I didn't ask,” Oswald replies, “and thanks for the offer. But no.”

Unbelievable.

“Fine,” Ed says casually, “I guess I'll be leaving then. By myself. Via _the escape route_. That I know. Without telling you about it.”

An exaggeration of the truth, perhaps – he doesn’t _actually_ know a way out of the locked-down city, merely rumors of one – but it appears to do the trick as Oswald perks up for a moment before schooling his features back into neutrality.

“The escape route?” he asks equally casually, although a slight tremble in his voice betrays his interest.

_Bingo._

Ed smiles. “I imagine you'd planned to buy your way out of the city... but you'd much rather keep the money and get to leave all the same, wouldn't you.”

The trash-bag, half-filled with cash and still dangling from Oswald's grip, illustrates the point perfectly; loathe to admit it as Ed is, they _do_ know each other well.

“Get to the point, Ed,” Oswald says, crossing his arms defensively, careful not to jostle the bag too much lest any of its contents spill out again.

“It's simple, really: I have a way out, you have plenty of ammunition – and valuables,” Ed says, giving the bag a pointed look for good measure. “I'll tell you how to get out, and in exchange I get to leave the city the same time as you. And a cut of your stash, of course.”

Oswald seems to consider the offer for a moment – an unnecessary charade, really, given that he won't get a better offer from anyone else anyway – before nodding. “Fine.”

Excellent. Ed's luck is turning – _finally_.

Keeping his smile as neutral as possible, he says, “You didn't even ask how big a cut I want.”

“You'll get as much as I'll give you once we're out of the city, seeing as you have no other option,” Oswald replies, a pleasant, if somewhat sarcastic, smile quirking his lips.

Unfortunately, he's right – technically, anyway, since Ed supposes he could also take however much he wants, but figures pointing this out would be detrimental to any potential cooperation.

“Fine,” Ed says, purposefully echoing Oswald's inflection. “We have a deal.”

They shake hands on it for good measure, and there's a short, somewhat awkward pause as Oswald begins to say something. Before he can get to it, though, the sound of light footsteps comes from the end of the hallway, followed by Selina Kyle, yawning pointedly and stretching her arms.

“I thought I heard someone talking,” she says, feigning sleepiness even though, given her ever so timely appearance, it's obvious she'd been eavesdropping if not the entire conversation then at least the tail end of it.

Her presence in the building, however, appears to be no surprise to Oswald, so Ed follows suit and doesn't question it. For the moment, anyway.

“Ed's coming with us,” Oswald says to Selina, a pointed flatness in his voice that makes it apparent he, too, is aware her well-timed arrival is no coincidence.

Selina, for her part, simply shrugs. “Fine by me,” she says, turning to leave. “Oh, by the way,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, “you're out of cereal,” before lazily sauntering off.

Ed waits a moment before giving Oswald a pointed look.

Oswald only stares back. “What?”

“Collecting strays now, are you?” Ed asks, although he already suspects what the answer is.

“I simply owe her a favor.”

“I figured as much.”

“Aren't you clever. And, speaking of clever things: where is that escape route, then?”

Well.

“Ah. About that...” Ed starts, unsure of where he's going with it but hoping he'll figure it out along the way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit angstier than the first and a helluva lot angstier than the final chapter will be, i can promise you that c:
> 
>  
> 
> enjoy!

Three hours later, Ed’s back at his hideout and not particularly closer to figuring out a way to deliver on his end of the deal. He’d asked Oswald to scout the river, knowing full well that any escape attempt would result in being blown sky high – he hadn’t been in the Green Zone for very long, but the experience had, at the very least, given him a few ideas. Unviable ideas, perhaps, but ideas nevertheless; there have also been whispers of a tunnel being dug, but nothing beyond that.

On the bright side, the wild goose chase he’d set Oswald on seems to be proving itself enough a distraction to give him the time he needs to come up with something: hopefully something concrete, and, most important of all, something that doesn’t end in a gruesome, untimely death.

Unfortunately, time, as it’s wont to be, is a limited resource; the sound of a door slamming somewhere nearby, followed by a set of uneven yet achingly _familiar_ footsteps coming up the stairs towards his office-slash-hideout, signals that his time, little as there was, is finally up.

And he’s got nothing other than scraps of a plan that seems impossible even to him.

_This is going to be fun,_ he finds himself thinking, with no little measure of sarcasm.

In an effort to save face, he grabs his revolver from the table, settling in beside the fireplace to slyly activate one of the currently-defunct defenses of the place and hoping – he might even be praying, if he believed in such things – that Oswald, once he gets up the steps, will step on the correct tile, one of several disguised pressure plates in the room that’s closest to the entrance.

A change in the pace of the footsteps indicates he’s almost here.

Ed tries to look even more relaxed, a feat he finds difficult to accomplish while clutching a revolver, so he tucks his hand into his jacket, effectively concealing the gun until the moment he needs to show it.

Whatever else he may be, he’s always been fond of the theatrical arts.

Staring into the open flame of the fireplace, he finds the situation almost relaxing – almost being the key word, because it’s exciting, too, the anticipation coursing through his veins like he remembers the rush of the pills he’d used as a crutch, once upon a time. But, most surprisingly of all, it’s also as comforting as any routine.

Right on time, as if he had an insight into the script Ed has constructed in his head for this occasion, Oswald steps into the room – and immediately onto the pressure plate tile.

“Stop right there, Oswald,” Ed says, “or you’ll flood the entire room with poisonous gas.”

He doesn’t add neither that the gas is technically a mostly-harmless incapacitating agent, nor that the last of his supply was pumped through the ventilation system of the GCPD building several days earlier – but Oswald doesn’t need to know that. Besides, there could be something still left in the containers. Who’s to say?

Oswald, for his part, only sighs. “Let’s get this over with, then. Disarm it.”

Ed turns, tucking the gun into the lining of his jacket slowly enough that Oswald can see its presence – and smiles genially. “First, answer me this. What did the–“

“Ed, I do _not_ have the patience for this! I _already_ almost died today; I’d rather not repeat the experience.”

“–bird say to the genius when he entered the room?”

A moment of silence.

Then, Oswald’s words hit home.

“Wait, you…” Ed starts, almost absently observing the panicked tone of his own voice with a hint of distaste. “You didn’t try going on the river yourself, did you?”

Oswald just stares back at him impatiently. Now that Ed thinks about it – the fact that he appears, by all intents and purposes, to be only mildly annoyed, indicates clearly that he did not, in fact, go on the river himself.

Something like relief uncoils in the pit of Ed’s stomach.

Oswald coughs pointedly, bringing him back to the present.

“Oh, the trap – right,” Ed mutters to himself, flipping the switch hidden under the left-most candlestick on the mantelpiece. The trap disarms with a soft click. “You’re good to go.”

“Was all that pageantry really necessary?” Oswald asks – as if he doesn’t already know the answer. He seems to figure this out himself the moment the words leave his mouth, though, because he adds, a little quieter, “Never mind, of course it was,” and moves over to the table to pull out a chair for himself.

Not to be outmaneuvered, Ed takes a seat himself. “What happened?” he asks, and the silence that follows hangs heavy in the room.

“The river is a bust,” Oswald says eventually, “although I suspect you already knew that. Then, Selina got the bright idea to go check out a tunnel that Jeremiah has apparently been building. When we got there, though, it turned out he’d blown up Wayne Manor on top of it, so that’s a no-go, too.” He pauses, and while Ed does his best to keep his face neutral, it appears to do nothing, because Oswald’s gaze hardens into something perilous. “After that, she tried to slit my throat – but, yet again, I suspect you already knew that.”

A flash of hurt runs through Ed’s chest. “I’d heard rumors about a tunnel,” he says carefully, keeping his tone even, “but I didn’t know Selina would try to kill you. Betray you, perhaps, but not kill.”

Oswald laughs at that, the sound ringing hollow throughout the room. “Spare me the theatrics, Ed. Wasn’t that why you showed up at my house? To give her your signal in person?”

“And nullify my own chances of getting out of the city? Why on earth would I do that?” Ed asks, hating the way anger and hurt color his tone. “If you want to accuse anyone, accuse Barbara. She’d most likely be the one Selina was working with.”

“I know the shape your revenge takes, Ed,” Oswald replies, a particular, exhausted kind of melancholy ringing in the words, accompanied by a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re getting paranoid, Oswald,” Ed says, finding himself copying his tone. As much as he hates it, he can see why Oswald has reached his conclusions, erroneous though they may be. “I’d elected to ignore the affronts against my person you’ve made in the past months alone simply for the sake of one last shot at getting out of this hellhole, but… maybe you’re right. It was foolish of me to think we could work together. You can’t trust me, and I can’t trust you. Perhaps this is the way things are meant to be.”

The light from the fireplace flickers, casting strange shadows on the walls of the room.

The silence seems suffocating now.

“You know what,” Oswald says suddenly, voice ringing clear as a bell. The light from the fireplace seems to reflect in his eyes, painting them with a triumphant gleam – and that’s technically true, Ed supposes, but he’s seen this look appear before, unprompted by any external light source. “I don’t believe that. Despite everything, here we are – in this room, together. We haven’t killed each other yet. Perhaps fate has different plans for us.”

Whatever Ed had expected him to say, it certainly wasn’t this. Even after all this time, after years of camaraderie and animosity and everything in-between, Oswald still manages to take him by surprise – a notion both dreadful and delightful in equal measure.

“So you _do_ believe in fate,” he says instead of voicing his thoughts, nostalgia intertwining with the triumph in his voice at finally receiving the answer to a question posed a lifetime ago. It’s a somewhat bittersweet moment, perhaps, but it still manages to coax a smile from him.

Oswald offers a small sliver of a smile in return as silence settles over the room once more. Unlike its previous incarnation, this one brings a certain sense of peace; an air of new beginnings, perhaps, neither forgiveness nor forgetting – they’re past that point, Ed thinks – but of moving on.

Speaking of…

“I wasn’t lying to you before, you know. I do have a potential way out of the city,” he says, and watches with satisfied amusement as Oswald’s eyes widen. “It’s nothing as simple as a tunnel, I’m afraid, but I think it could work.”

“What is it, then?” Oswald asks, back in line with the script – as he should be.

“We build a submarine,” Ed says, and watches Oswald’s eyes widen even further. "How hard could it be?"

 

***

 

Two days, a shocking revelation regarding Barbara Kean’s reproductive system and a reluctant alliance followed by a much-needed haircut later, Ed is poring over a dizzying array of notes and schematics, wondering just what he’s gotten himself into.

As it turns out, building a submarine from scratch is a lot more difficult than initially anticipated.

He supposes it’s good that Oswald’s running an ammunitions factory – the amount of steel they need, even for a submarine that’s technically only the size of a submersible… well. The ammunitions factory is a wonderful thing, indeed.

As for everything else, however…

It’s taken him an entire day to figure out where to even begin collecting what they need: a suitable battery and a functional sonar alone are proving to be nigh-impossible to track down, not to mention the materials needed for an air filtration system and an engine. And, to top it all off, there is also the fact that the river, however polluted it may have been before, is now positively saturated with an unpredictable toxin.

At this point, Ed makes himself busy to keep his mind off the fact that the chances of success, low as they were in the first place, dwindle further with every hour spent on trying to locate the materials in a city fallen to anarchy.

Not for the first time, he contemplates simply slapping a sonar on a raft and calling it a day – even that would be a more viable plan than building a functional underwater vehicle from scraps.

Even thinking about it is enough to give him a headache.

But… what other option is there?

He stares blankly at the incomplete list of potential sites for half an hour before he even realizes he’s doing it. A glance away from the table reveals the dog – who, accompanied by its paraphernalia and a two-way pager, Ed had found waiting in his hideout after getting back from yet another unsuccessful trip to scrounge up intact lenses at Gotham Glassworks earlier that morning – still snoring away happily on an armchair just a few feet away, none the wiser to their predicament.

Why Oswald had thought Ed would play babysitter for the dog remains indecipherable, made even more so by the fact that Ed hasn’t seen neither hair nor hide of him for two days.

Turning back to the notes, useless as ever, he contemplates getting the last of the accelerant he still has left over and torching the entire pile. Or he could just throw them in the fireplace – it would certainly be less of a hassle.

Then again, without the notes he’d be back to square one.

He closes his eyes and rubs his temples, if only to have _something_ to do.

He needs a new angle, a fresh perspective.

An unexpected sound from the direction of the armchair forces his eyes open.

The dog, apparently having had enough of sleeping, plops awkwardly down onto the floor, stretching its stout little legs. With a yawn, it waddles over to the bowl of gourmet kibble Ed had laid out for it and gets to work.

Ed lets his mind wander as he watches the dog scarf down the kibble without a care in the world.

The raft plan is starting to seem more and more enticing; he’d only need a sonar.

Humoring himself, if only for a moment, he looks back to the map, focusing solely on the sonar and not on the ten thousand other things he needs to go alongside it.

There _is_ an old electronics warehouse near Dixon Docks – its accessibility as well as whether there is anything salvageable left after three months of chaos are both questionable, but…

There is also the chance that there might be something he could use; however slim it may be, the possibility is enough to get him moving.

“I’ll be back in a few hours. Hold down the fort, will you,” he tells the dog, grabbing the pager from the table and putting it in his pocket, although he doesn’t know why he bothers with either.

True to form, even the dog doesn’t pay any attention to him.

Great.

 

***

 

Thanks to a wandering band of looters and an emergency detour necessitated by their presence, the journey to the warehouse takes Ed longer than he’d planned; by the time he arrives, the day is swiftly hurtling towards the evening.

Still, he manages to get there

Of course, given that his luck is what it is, once he gets into the warehouse through an unlocked side-door, he immediately trips over a crate filled with… baseball bats?

In retrospect, this should’ve been his first clue that the building was not as unoccupied as it seemed.

In the moment, however, he pays no mind to this and rights himself, cursing as a flash of pain indicates his left ankle is at best twisted, at worst broken. He curses again, but, hobbling slightly to keep his weight off his left leg, nevertheless ventures further in-between the towering stacks of crates and shelves lined with cardboard boxes.

Surprisingly enough – although perhaps understandably, given that the warehouse was never used to store food – most of the boxes appear to be untouched, save for a few that are covered in childish scribbles.

Thinking nothing of this, he empties one of the unmarked boxes of its contents and starts going through the contents of the shelf closest to him, trying to determine in the dim light whether there is anything usable. The first box is useless, the second no better, but the third one is the charm – he finds an almost luxurious selection of breadboards and a tangle of wires.

It may not be the most crucial element of the sonar, but it’s a start.

Ed allows himself to bask in this small victory for half a minute before going back to work. Just as he’s about to tear open the fourth box, though, there’s a clattering from further within the building, somewhere to his left.

He pauses, listening intently for a minute, but no sound follows.

Still, under the circumstances, it’s better to err on the side of caution, so, after waiting another minute, he gets up, grabs the box and starts a slow, silent retreat. Everything goes well up until the moment he forgets he’d left a box on the ground and promptly knocks it over with his heel.

The sound of metal hitting concrete rings through the building.

“I thought I heard a little rat,” a lilting voice says from the other end of the warehouse. “Come out now and I won’t go all rat-catcher on you.”

Ed’s heart skips a beat.

_Of course_ today would be the day he neglected to bring his gun with him.

Sloppy – foolish _and_ sloppy.

He does his best to sneak over to a stack of crates as quietly as possible, hoping the cover they provide will be enough to keep him hidden while he gets a message out on the pager.

Not for the first time, he curses the non-existent submarine and his all-too-existent injury.

He’s almost done typing when the voice calls out again, now a good deal closer than before. “I haven’t got all day, you know,” it says, the amusement in it a sharp contrast to the perilous nature of the situation.

If Gotham City had an award for the most hare-brained plan of the year, Ed Nygma is sure the predicament he's found himself in would certainly qualify if not for the award itself then at least an honorable mention.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

What is easy to get into but hard to get out of?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this........ took a lot longer than it was supposed to. grad school is my only excuse.  
> i hope this amalgamation of drama, cheese, and unintentional matchmaking will suffice as an apology.
> 
>  
> 
> enjoy!

When Oswald gets back to the hideout, Edward is nowhere to be found.

Well, to be more specific, Edward _the dog_ is there, happy as a clam and snoring away on the built-in seats by the bookshelves. That Oswald had ever thought a bulldog – whose breed name implies ferocity and whose actual demeanor does anything but – would be of any use as a guard dog seems ridiculous now, in retrospect.

In any case, though, Edward _the human_ remains elusive, even after Oswald calls out several times. The dog, seemingly thinking that the calling is for him, awakens and waddles over, begging for pets – and Oswald happily obliges.

For all his failures as a guard dog, Edward _is_ a delight.

Perhaps he should’ve given the dog a different name.

Too late for that now.

Turning his attention back to the state of the room reveals that most of Ed’s things are accounted for – so he hasn’t made a break for it by himself… presumably. Given that it’s Ed, though, and given his occasional penchant for a do-it-yourself mentality that veers towards the extreme, as well as the fact that he isn’t, presumably, in earshot…

Walking over to the table, Oswald immediately notices two further things.

Firstly, that wherever he may have gone, Ed has taken the pager with him – good.

_Unless he’s thrown it out, of course – but, somehow, that feels unlikely._

Secondly, that Ed has, for some reason, left the revolver behind – bad.

_Unless he has another gun, of course – but, somehow, that too feels unlikely._

All the enthusiasm Oswald had been feeling from finding the old plane carcass and having it stripped down to parts for the submarine is starting to feel a little bit hollow, now.

Without Ed, there is no submarine.

God damn it.

A defeatist attitude, perhaps – he doesn’t even know how long Ed has been gone.

He could, technically, still be in the building (he probably isn’t) or he could’ve gone to… to…

Scanning the array of papers on the table, Oswald notices more than a few schematics pertaining to sonars, laid out next to a map of Gotham. Ed _had_ mentioned a sonar, now that he thinks about it: loudly and insistently and many, _many_ times.

Staring at the papers for what feels like weeks but is probably only a few minutes, Oswald contemplates what to do next.

To go after Ed? He doesn’t have a clue as to where he might be. What would be the point?

To remain here, waiting? Tempting, and the safest, most comfortable option, but…

To be fair, Ed _is_ a grown man, at least somewhat capable of taking care of himself. Then again, he is _Ed_ …

An insistent _beep!_ from the pager Oswald has in his pocket saves him from the inane thought process. Enclosed in the message is an address – somewhere near the Dixon Docks, if memory serves; a look at the map indicates he’s correct – followed by _ASAP_ and _SOS_ , with three question marks he assumes have been included as an indicator of the message’s author finishing the message – completely unnecessary, that tagline, in Oswald’s humble opinion. Who else would it be? It’s not like he’s been handing out pagers to the unwashed masses.

Oswald stares at the message for a moment, unsure of how exactly to proceed. Ed has given no indication of what to expect aside from the _SOS_ , which, considering select prior experience with Ed’s messages, could be interpreted as anything from a life-threatening emergency to a headache.

“Well, Edward,” he says, looking at the dog who is staring up at him with wide eyes, tongue lolling out, “looks like you’ll have be a good boy and hold down the fort while I go rescue Ed the human.”

The dog pants in response, wagging its stubby tail, completely oblivious as always – and yet, he’s smarter than half the people in Oswald’s employ.

He gives the dog a few more pets for good measure.

Speaking of people in his employ…

 

***

 

When Ed comes to, he finds himself strapped to a chair by his arms and legs with a not-unimpressive number of buckles and in the throes of a headache the like of which he’s never felt before.

Struggling against the restraints sends fresh waves of pain up and down his injured leg, leaving him nauseous and breathless.

_I’m stuck in a chair in a random warehouse with no way out, I might have a broken leg and quite possibly a concussion as well. What am I?_

The answer, he thinks, is implicit.

The situation is dire – and becomes even more so when he hears a scuffle somewhere behind him. “Hello?” he manages to croak out, throat rough like sandpaper.

“Oh, you’re awake!” the same voice from before, the one he knows to be attached to a very, very unhinged woman, replies. She dances – or skips, more like – into view, hauling the same mallet with her that, by the feel of it, left a goose-egg sized bump on his head when it made contact an indeterminate time ago. “I was wondering when you would.”

Ed blinks, once, twice.

“You could’ve _killed_ me,” he says eventually, and the woman – girl, more like, given her demeanor, but then again, who knows? – scoffs in response.

“A strange man is skulking around my place, I’m protectin’ myself before I start askin’ questions,” she says, crossing her arms. “Besides, I had dibs.”

Ed blinks again, trying to reach a mindset wherein the applicability of the concept of ‘dibs’ makes even a small amount of sense in this context. “What?” he ends up prompting when it becomes apparent she won’t elaborate on her own.

She stares him down with nothing but an amused look in her eye. “Dibs, as in, _this is my turf so stay the hell away_. Duh. I thought you were supposed to be smart. Aren’t you the riddle guy or whatever?”

A flash of pride, mixed with no small amount of annoyance, crosses Ed’s heart before he suppresses it – for the moment, at least. She knows who he is, if merely by reputation; he can use that. Somehow. Once his headache alleviates enough to let him _think_. “I’m the Riddler, yes. Sorry for intruding on your… turf.”

The woman giggles, all previous irritation seemingly forgotten. “That’s all you had to say! I’m Ecco, nice to meet ya.”

An unexpected response, but not an unwelcome one – so, Ed smiles in return, and is about to nicely ask her to let him out of the chair when her giggling stops, leaving her to furrow her uneven brows at him once more.

“Wait a minute,” she says, “what are _you_ doing here?”

A beat, as Ed tries to figure out a way to give her a reasonable reason (hah!) without revealing the submarine plan. There’s trouble enough as is, and if she’s who he suspects her to be, her involvement is the last thing they need.

 _They_ …

Wait. Did his message even go through? How long has he been unconscious?

Where _is_ Oswald?

“Hey!” the woman – Ecco – shouts, knocking his knee with her mallet to get his attention. “I asked you a question.”

Ed winces from the impact, shockwaves of pain travelling down his leg to finalize themselves into a knot of pain around his ankle. “Right. Yes, well…” he starts, trailing off once he realizes he’s drawing a complete blank.

She scoffs and turns away, apparently disinterested now – up until she drops her mallet and reveals a small pistol, tucked into the lining of her jacket. She pulls it out, examines it, and trains it on his face.

Ed’s mind seems to be working at speeds slower than when he was on ice. “Why are _you_ here?” he ends up blurting out.

Fortunately, though, it seems like today is his lucky day, because Ecco lowers the gun, a curious kind of assessment in her gaze. “Because of Mr. J, of course. Duh,” she says, rolling her eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Right.

“And that is…?” Ed asks, a desperate bid for time to think with a question he already knows the answer to.

If he can get her talking and keep her doing so, he can figure out a way out of this mess in the meanwhile.

Somehow.

Probably.

Fortunately, fortune appears to smile on him, because she launches off into a tirade about the seemingly endless merits of her Mr. J and doesn’t seem particularly concerned whether he’s actually listening or not.

Still, better to err on the side of caution – so, Ed nods and hums and haws his agreement in the appropriate moments, all the while pondering whether there’s a way he can wiggle an arm out of the restraints without causing any more damage to himself than has already been done.

Five minutes later, he’s no closer to an answer than he was before, and Ecco is still, somehow – miraculously, even – talking.

_What is easy to get into but hard to get out of?_

A chair, apparently.

Time to switch tactics, then.

“Sounds like you really care about this Mr. J,” he says, watching as Ecco, who has been pacing back and forth in front of him for the past two minutes or so, closes her mouth around whatever word had been coming out of it and comes to a complete standstill.

“Took you a while, huh,” she says, crossing her arms. “Maybe you ain’t as smart as you’re made out to be.”

Ed takes a deep breath and counts to three. Just to get through this, and never again.

_Just to get through this, and never again._

“Perhaps,” he says, the word like lead on his tongue, “or perhaps I, too, have my reasons to be distracted. I’ve heard about what happened to him, you know. Awfully sad, that.”

A mix of anger and sorrow flit across the woman’s face. “Tell me, Mr. Riddler,” she says, pointing the gun at him once more, “have you ever been in love?”

Whatever question Ed had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t this. “What?” he says, uncomfortably aware of the impression he’s doubtlessly giving her of himself and his level of intelligence.

No wonder she thinks he’s a moron.

Ecco rolls her eyes. “Love? Ever heard of it? Ever been in it?” she repeats, accentuating the questions by waving the gun at him.

He’s at the questionable mercy of a madwoman with no way out and, presumably, no help coming.

For some reason, the only thing he can think of is the stupid dog.

But perhaps…

Ed opens his mouth to start spinning his story, hoping to buy himself some time, when there’s a terrible, loud bang and a familiar voice calls out his name.

Ecco draws back, looks him dead in the eye, and grins.

_Fantastic._

Ed closes his eyes.

 

***

 

As it turns out, Ed’s _SOS_ had been of the life-threatening variety after all – bursting into the warehouse, the first thing Oswald sees is the back of a bizarrely-clothed woman. The second thing he sees, and inevitably the one he focuses on, is Ed, strapped to a chair with what looks like an impressive array of belts, sporting an immense goose-egg on his head and an incredulous expression.

It takes everything Oswald has to not rush over immediately, especially once he realizes the woman is holding a gun to Ed’s head. “Let him go,” he manages to force out instead, somehow keeping his tone even despite the erratic flutter of fear around his heart, pointing his automatic rifle at the woman. “Now.”

After a moment, the two goons he’s brought with him manage to do the same. Whatever he’s getting from them, it sure isn’t his money’s worth; loyalty is purchasable enough, but a functioning brain…

Apparently not.

The woman only tuts in response. “Mm, not gonna happen.”

Oswald’s heart feels like it’s being gripped by an ice-cold vise. “Let him go,” he repeats, “or I’ll paint this place with your blood faster than you can–”

“–than I can put a bullet in _his_ big ol’ head? I’d like to see that,” she interrupts, smiling genially as she moves to stand behind Ed, running the barrel of the gun through his hair as she does.

As much as Oswald hates to admit it, she’s right – and Ed must realize this, too, because he quietly says, “Just… just do whatever she asks, Oswald.”

For the love of…

Gritting his teeth, Oswald voices his agreement.

“Excellent!” the woman chirps. “First things first, tell the muscle to wait outside. And no funny business.”

 _As if they could muster up the brainpower for it_ , Oswald thinks, but signals for the goons to leave nonetheless.

They wait for a minute in tense silence as the men lumber off, doubtlessly to attempt to commandeer the vehicle they’d arrived in.

Good thing Oswald took the keys with him.

Once they’re gone, the woman speaks again. “So, just so we’re all on the same page: green-man here tried to steal from me. You can see how that worked out for him. But, more importantly: underneath this lovely chair, as you can see, is a pound of C4 that’s going to send this place sky high if you so much as move a muscle without my say-so. Clear?”

Ed’s eyes widen almost comically.

_He didn’t know._

The thought hits Oswald like a freight train; the persistent nagging of _this is familiar, something like this has happened before and it destroyed everything_ quiets and is replaced with the realization that not only is this real, but their lives are at the whim of a clearly unhinged woman.

Taking a deep breath, Oswald lowers his gun with shaky hands. “Alright,” he says, unable to keep the nervous quiver from his voice. “What do you want?”

The woman, who thus far has been jovially grinning at him, drops the smile rather quickly at that. “I want to be left _alone_ ,” she replies, voice cracking on the last word. “I lost my Mr. J, and when I finally get myself a place to rest and recuperate, this–” a trembling hand presses the gun closer to Ed’s head– “ _guy_ shows up to _steal from me_!”

A moment passes in silence, accentuated only by the woman’s heavy breathing.

“How about we make a deal,” Oswald finds himself saying; either his meager luck holds or it doesn’t, but he will not die without trying. “Let us go, and we’ll never bother you again – in fact, I’ll make sure no one does. How does that sound?”

“Oswald…” Ed starts, but is cut off when the woman smacks him with the pistol.

“Quiet, you,” she says before turning back to Oswald. “You can do that?”

Oswald smiles, the expression as false as the promise – but she doesn’t know that. “Of course. I’m the Penguin, am I not?”

The woman scrunches up her face, deep in thought.

“Okay,” she says eventually.

The sigh of relief that escapes Oswald’s body with that leaves him feeling a hundred pounds lighter. “Excellent,” he says, but it rings hollow once he realizes she still hasn’t lowered her gun.

In fact, she’s rooting around in her pocket.

_What is she…_

With a triumphant shout, she pulls out a detonator.

“I know _you’re_ lying,” she says, pointing the detonator at him. “You’ve got a minute to figure out if _he_ is, too.” With that cryptic note, she’s backing away quick as can be, and disappears into the maze-like depths of the warehouse as a soft ticking begins to echo metronomically throughout the warehouse.

All thought of the woman vanishes once the meaning of the words registers. Oswald throws his rifle from his hands and rushes over to the chair. “Help me with this, will you,” he tells Ed, shaky hands on the restrains to undo the buckles on Ed’s right arm.

“Oswald,” Ed replies, voice shaky and eyes wide. “You need to get out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you, Ed.”

One arm free. Twenty ticks of the detonator gone.

“There’s no time. You need to go.”

Oswald expects anger. Wants it, even – wants to be angry that _this_ is how he’s going to die. In its stead, there is only acceptance.

Thirty-three ticks have passed.

“We’re partners,” he manages to say; the tears collecting in his eyes make untangling the straps around Ed’s other arm more difficult by the moment. “I’m not leaving you.”

Forty-six ticks, now.

The other arm is free. Ed leans down to open the buckles on his left leg while Oswald kneels to work on the right.

Not enough time.

“Go,” Ed says again, quieter this time, reaching out to press his palm against Oswald’s cheek. “Please, Oswald.”

Fifty-four ticks.

No time.

“Oswald,” Ed repeats softly, tears streaking his cheeks.

Fifty-seven ticks.

Oswald presses his mouth to Ed’s.

A choked noise of surprise in return.

A moment, suspended in time.

 

***

 

A fraction of a beat, wetness on his cheeks – his tears or Oswald’s?

Doesn’t matter.

His hands in Oswald’s hair; Oswald’s lips against his.

The taste of salt and fear on his tongue.

Fifty-eight ticks.

If this is how he dies– Ed realizes he’s fine with it.

Fifty-nine.

Come what may.

The ticking stops.

Ed’s heart does the same.

Instead of the blackness closing in once more, however, there is – nothing.

The world keeps spinning.

Oswald draws back, blinking as if seeing Ed for the first time. “Are we– What the hell just happened?” he says, eyes wide as saucers.

Ed shakes his head, breathless, the same question on his mind but not the same meaning.

Oswald squints at his feet. “Get out of the chair,” he says, standing up.

Ed does his best to loosen the last two buckles remaining. Standing up on shaky legs – his left can, to some extent, hold his weight, so it’s probably not broken, just sprained – he turns to kick the chair over.

Underneath it is a neatly wrapped red-and-black package. A tiny flag with the word **_BANG!_** written on it sticks out from the top.

“She…” Ed starts, trailing off.

Oswald howls. “I can’t believe this–”

_What do Feste, Touchstone, and Yorick all have in common?_

“Right,” Ed says, masking the turmoil of rage, surprise, and relief in his chest with a veneer of calm as he watches Oswald kick at the box. “We should get out of here.”

The box finally tips over, spilling out the equipment Ed had collected before Ecco’s interruption. Oswald pauses, staring at the spilled contents of the box. “Let me guess,” he says quietly, “this is what you came here for.”

Ed nods, a lump in his throat.

They stand in silence for a moment, eyes trained on the tangled mess of electronics on the filthy floor.

“So,” Ed forces out eventually, heart pounding methodically like the fake timer as he turns to look at Oswald. “What now?”

Oswald takes a deep breath, his expression unreadable. “Get your things. I’m sick of this place,” he says, turning to retrieve his rifle from where it fell when he’d lunged for Ed what seems like a lifetime ago.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Perhaps it is childish of him, but Ed ends up confiscating the mallet; finder's keepers. Besides, it does make for an excellent makeshift cane – and isn't _that_ an idea worth considering.

Well, someday – not while more pressing concerns beckon him at the threshold. Quite literally.

 

***

 

One car-ride, two dead goons, and three hours later, they’re finally back at Ed’s hideout.

The boxful of electronics sits on the table, the only tangible proof of what the day has wrought.

Edward the dog pants happily in Oswald’s lap.

Ed the human, however, is restlessly pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace just as he has been for the past ten minutes.

Something, however, appears to change – perhaps he makes up his mind, or gets tired of the repetition, or realizes the motion is taxing his sprained ankle, it’s hard to say – because he comes to a standstill in front of Oswald. “Did you mean it?” he asks, and – ah.

So _that’s_ what he’s been thinking about.

Oswald wants to laugh. “I’m holding a dog that bears your name,” he says instead, scratching said dog behind the ears. “Does that answer your question?”

“So he _is_ named after me.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

Ed chuckles at that, and – God, isn’t it a beautiful sound.

If Oswald were still harboring any doubts, they’d have been obliterated with that laugh. So, he smiles in return – and remembers there’s one more thing he can offer. “By the way,” he says, “I’ve got a present for you.”

The twinkle of mirthful curiosity in Ed’s eye is a delight to behold. “Really?”

“I found the remains of a plane. It’s being dismantled for parts for the submarine as we speak.”

This time, it’s Ed who surprises him with a kiss – and Oswald doesn’t mind one bit.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ bctrogues


End file.
